Notes from Perdition
by AliBlack
Summary: Eastern Promises. A series of vignettes / drabbles on Kirill. -Cigarettes burn slow, the aftertaste lingers, but the smoke cannot be held down.-
1. Smokescreen

_(Part I - Smokescreen)_

The room is foggy with cigarette smoke, and hazy from whiskey and vodka. They feel odd together – the drinks – make a strange feeling emanate from the pit of your stomach. And the smoke is suddenly the most fascinating thing – just watching it curl up from the ashtray – free, unrestrained, able to escape its origin without the slightest struggle. Up it drifts in little ringlets like an old oriental painting – the Asian artists always made the most beautiful shapes; not exactly realistic, but true to the nature – symbolic. The window is open and the smoke slips out and disappears into the world.

There must be more than this dark, rainy, London weather. 

There are glasses on the table. One from the vodka downstairs – two shot glasses from the drawer and a bottle of whiskey that is almost spent. Smoke dissipates, but whiskey lingers, holding the bottle down, almost – holding him down. 

The door creaks open and little impish eyes peer in, tiny, soft hands holding the doorknob. 

"Uncle, are you drunk?" the angel asks, looking at the glasses. She's too young to understand what it really means other than stupid laughter and stumbling. "No, _moya radost, _I only had one; I swear to you," he says, pulling the bedcovers farther up his abdomen. 

She says, "That's good," and comes in to climb on the bed with him. "It's almost afternoon, Uncle; won't you get up?"

He strokes her hair absentmindedly. "Soon. I was up late."

"Why?"

He reaches over and stubs the cigarette he hadn't even smoked and waves the smoke out the window. "Just getting some work done, yeah?"

"That's good. Mommy likes it when I do work for her – like clean my room. Mommy says I'm a good girl then."

He says, "The best girl."

"Thanks, Uncle."

"You're welcome." He tickles her sides suddenly, eliciting the most angelic laugh. There is nothing so sweet as the laughter of a young child. 

"Uncle," she scolds, rolling out of the bed and kneeling on the floor instead, little blue eyes level with his own on the pillow. "I don't like to be tickled." 

He grins down at the eyes and wrinkled nose peering up at him. "Then why do you smile?" He wrapped a long arm around her middle and poked at her belly. She runs away to the door and hides behind it, looking back with the same impish gaze. "Tell you what, _moya radost_; How would you like to earn some of my money?" he asked, pulling out the drawer of his nightstand and reaching inside.

"Maybe."

"Maybe? You want to know what you can do?" She nods. "Today, you be the sweet angel you are for your mother, and promise to say your prayers and look after your sister, too. That's all."

"Really?"

He says, "On my honor."

"I promise. I promise."

He smiles at her soft little voice. "Then you can have this here." He places a ten pound note in her outstretched palms and she looks at it as if she were given the key to Buckingham. 

"Thank you, Uncle!" She kisses him on the cheek before bounding out of the room, promising once more to obey. 

He runs the backs of his fingers over the spot she had kissed. Love, the children are beautiful for their unconditional love. Praise Mary his sisters had girls. He lights another cigarette just to watch the smoke rise up from the nightstand once more, and grabs the whiskey bottle – ignoring the glass. 

[_moya radost - my happiness_


	2. Sepia

_(Part II - Sepia) _

The night is dark outside the Trans-Siberian – street lanterns seeming distant and inadequate. Everything is either black or sepia toned. The brick in the alleyway is cold and damp but the night is humid – electricity in the air. The evening is potent – intoxicating – full of potential. The whole of the city seems crouched and ready to spring. Ready for – something. 

But it would surely be wasted in sin and drink. 

What a dreary existence – and unfulfilling. At least the drink dulled him. He pushed expectations from his mind and put out his cigarette as the car pulled up. 


	3. China Doll

_(Part III – China Doll) _

Her skin was porcelain – smooth china doll white with just the hint of pale green veins running underneath. Flushed red lips and light hair – matching lingerie and stockings the color of sweet Belgian chocolate, and the most perfect breasts a man might ever see. 

He runs his tongue along her collarbone and in the cleft between her breasts.

She dances slowly – practiced and without a smile. She is beautiful and he kisses her neck – but she does not smile. She is the type of woman man go crazy for – the perfect heart-shaped ass and lean legs. He lusts for her soft skin, her lips, her body – but she is unresponsive. He wants to feel her pressed up against him – under him – possess the beauty before him. He licks the soft flesh of her earlobe – and she dances.

One more kiss of the skin he so wishes have. One last taste of the flesh he lusts for – but he only thinks of the girl she once was – the father and the mother she had – perhaps even an uncle to play with. The life they had torn her from. The way her eyes stay trained on the wallpaper betray her – how detached she is – how trapped she is – and he turns away, grabbing his shirt from the chair and slipping it back on. 

She is looking at him when he turns back – a hardened expression on her face. No doubt Tatiana had told all of them how poor pathetic Kirill couldn't get it up that night. No doubt she was thinking he had some sort of problem – not that he couldn't stand her detachment, the silent plea for him to leave her alone – but she would be wondering if it was a disfigurement or physical problem – or if he were just a fag. 

Her eyes were so pale and lovely, and her body so flawless. He finishes buttoning his shirt, thinking if only he could just take her whether willing or not. No wonder his father calls him a disgrace. 

He steps forward and caresses her soft porcelain cheek. If only it weren't such a disgusting thought – to take the unwilling. Her face is cold. 

He draws his arm back and slaps her across the mouth. She is on the floor as he grabs his coat and walks out. 


	4. Grey

_(Part IV – Grey) _

The night is dark and growing cold. A tiny sliver of moon is playing hide and seek among the taller buildings as he walks the boulevard, hands in his pockets and eyes turned down. It was past midnight already – two hours ago. The electricity the city was saturated with has evaporated since he was last out – the potency of the early night gone somewhere else to deceive him another time. The edge of that morning's paper juts out of a nearby rubbish bin and sways back and forth – the only living thing around. 

The city feels empty and dead – all he can do is walk. 


End file.
